


If you shut your eyes, better hold em tight

by sootandshadow



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: AU - half-oni Dante and Vergil, Anal Sex, Biker Gang AU, Canon-Typical Violence, D/s undertones, Descriptions of tattooing, Incest, M/M, Parent/Child Incest, VerNero week, Violent making out, demon dicks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-29
Updated: 2019-07-29
Packaged: 2020-07-24 23:56:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20023120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sootandshadow/pseuds/sootandshadow
Summary: House arrest is the absoluteworst.Nero buries his face in the cushion with a thoroughly disgruntled noise, trying, for what feels like the hundredth time that evening, to get comfortable. It’s 7 p.m. and he should be out on patrol, taking his bike for a spin around the streets in search of rakshasa or infernal predators or any other hellspawn that felt the need to venture into the mundane world. There’s always something out there that needs an ass-kicking, and Nero’s never been one to shy away from dishing out beatdowns like candy at Halloween.But no, instead Nero is here, face first on Dante’s couch, bemoaning his fate, because he has to do as he’stold. (And honestly? Fuck these boundaries and the demon bike they rode in on.)





	If you shut your eyes, better hold em tight

House arrest is the absolute _worst._

Nero buries his face in the cushion with a thoroughly disgruntled noise, trying, for what feels like the hundredth time that evening, to get comfortable. It’s 7 p.m. and he should be out on patrol, taking his bike for a spin around the streets in search of rakshasa or infernal predators or any other hellspawn that felt the need to venture into the mundane world. There’s always something out there that needs an ass-kicking, and Nero’s never been one to shy away from dishing out beatdowns like candy at Halloween. 

But no, instead Nero is here, face first on Dante’s couch, bemoaning his fate, because he has to do as he’s _told_. (And honestly? Fuck these boundaries and the demon bike they rode in on.) 

What he hates more than being left behind like this — which, yeah, sucks major ass — is the fact that this is supposed to be his reward for officially becoming a member of Dante’s unimaginatively named gang. The Devils were a small, tightly-knit group, composed of a mishmash of humans, oni, and everything in between. At its head were the two half-oni twins: Dante, the White Tiger of the West, and his brother Vergil, the Azure Dragon of the East. Together, they both protected and ruled the streets this side of Kaidan, keeping humans safe and kicking demon butt in equal parts. Joining the Devils was said to be nigh impossible for average folk; but, then again, Nero had never been what most people considered “average.” 

He’d won over Dante easy enough. The man had taken a shine to him from the moment he’d picked Nero’s bloody, sorry ass off the street and offered him a place to stay in his beat-up little handyman shop. He’d liked Nero’s attitude, liked the fact that he had oni blood burning through his veins even more. It hadn’t taken much for him to suggest that Nero put his skills with a sword to better use, fighting for a good cause, protecting more than just himself. 

Truthfully, the offer had come as a bit of a surprise. Few people in Nero’s life had ever wanted to keep him around for the long haul, put off by his foul mouth and belligerent attitude. But Dante’s offer had been sincere, and as much as the man could really grind his gears, Nero could respect him. (Most of the time, anyways.) Once Nero was certain that Dante was genuine in his intentions, it had been easy for him to accept. 

Unfortunately, getting the green light from Dante hadn’t been enough. According to the Devils’ rules, both Dante and Vergil had to agree on new members, though Dante was free to bring in as many “independent contractors” as he liked. While Vergil hadn’t been overly opposed to allowing Nero in their home — provided Nero kept to his own space — he had never shown any interest in letting Nero be anything more than their houseguest. 

But even Vergil wasn’t immune to Nero’s persistence, especially in the form of the heads of the Devils’ enemies. Nero had known he’d had him the moment Vergil had briefly rested his hand on the nape of Nero’s neck after a particularly rewarding fight, thumb almost absently stroking the skin there. It had felt possessive, like a claim made publicly yet subtly, and it had given Nero goosebumps. 

Sure enough, when they’d returned to Dante’s shop that night, Vergil had committed to his acceptance, and casually inquired about Nero’s design preferences for his future tattoo. All Devils were Marked by Vergil, in a manner fitting of an oni: with ink and blood and magic. Dante wore his openly and proudly, intricate red and black and white designs flowing over his back, arms, and chest, save for a narrow bar of pale flesh down the centre of his torso. While the rest of the gang members weren’t quite so keen to walk around half-naked, Nero had glimpsed some of their tattoos as well: beautifully, incredible artistry stretching out across their backs and onto their shoulders. Having his own meant that Nero really would be one of them, forever, and Dante had teased him relentlessly when the offer had made him a little choked up. 

Three days later, Vergil had laid him out on the table with practiced efficiency and scrutinized his bared back with the cool, piercing gaze of a predator. Then, he'd settled himself and got to work, turning Nero's pale skin a myriad of colours as he was made a living canvas for Vergil's meticulous and painful artistry. It had taken several sessions, despite how fast Vergil could work, with Nero lying as still as he could bear. 

He doesn't remember much from the hours he spent there, his memory a haze of piercing pain, the ozone smell of magic, and the feeling of Vergil's inhumanly hot palm as it rested and caressed his flesh. Once, and this particular moment is burned vividly into Nero's mind, his body had betrayed his resolve and he'd flinched away from Vergil's needle. Vergil's hand had grasped a handful of his hair then and pressed firmly into the back of his neck, both a mute warning and a grounding touch. Nero had had to bite his lip hard enough to draw blood then just to stay quiet, body betraying him in a different way as his cock swelled between his legs, something hot and aching stirring beneath his skin that had nothing to do with his new tattoo. 

The finished product had been well worth it though, beautiful in a way Nero hadn’t expected. Naturally, Vergil had had to ruin the moment of the reveal by putting Nero on house arrest for a week so he didn't spoil Vergil's hard work. Nero needed more time for his body to properly heal than some of the other members, a "side effect of his human weakness" as Vergil had so bluntly put it. While Nero didn’t generally have a problem with being the most human of the three of them, three quarters to the brothers' half, for once he finds himself annoyed with his body's failings. To make matters even worse, the bastard had refused to let Nero have his new, embroidered leather jacket until he was cleared for active duty, which meant Nero was well and truly stuck loitering around Dante’s shop until Vergil released him. 

He can’t even be comfortable in his boredom either. The area from the nape of his neck to the base of his spine itches something fierce, every slide of his clothing against freshly tattooed skin sending fiery tingles across the touched area. Lying on his belly certainly helps, but it has the downside of making him all the more aware of his stirring cock moving against the fabric of his pants.

And really, that’s Vergil's fault too.

The man had stupidly nice hands, with long, slender fingers that seemed to work magic whether he was wielding a pen or a sword. Nero had, mortifyingly, spent every night after a tattoo session touching himself to the memory of the heat of those hands on him, the thrill of being subjected to the entirety of Vergil’s attention, the way his name had rolled off of Vergil’s tongue when Vergil had called him back to himself. As if that wasn’t enough fantasy fodder to last Nero a lifetime, after the tattoo was done Vergil and Dante had started taking turns applying the necessary ointment to his back, working it into Nero’s skin like some sort of sensual massage.

Nero wasn’t sure how he’d gotten his pain and pleasure wires so crossed, but even now, every time his shirt moves over his tattoo he can’t help but remember _everything_ , blood rushing southward as his cock fills against his will. After a taste of what Vergil can offer, Nero finds himself hungry for more, wanting to feel those pale eyes watching him again, wanting to feel those warm hands caressing more than just his back. He understands intimately why Dante has so many tattoos, which he subjects himself to the painful procedure again and again if only so he can become the centre of Vergil’s universe for even a few hours. Once his current one is healed, Nero would happily let Vergil put more on him, perhaps even decorate his pecs with swirls of blue and silver while Nero lay vulnerable on his back and let him work. And then, maybe, if he had been good enough, Vergil would pulls his gloves off and reach a hand down into the confines of Nero’s pants and grasp—

The loud ring of the phone jerks him out of his thoughts and Nero lifts his head just enough to look at the source of the noise, frowning. Only a few individuals still use the landline, most more comfortable with communicating via email when they want to get in touch. For someone to be calling at this hour suggests they’ve either got the wrong number, or there’s trouble. Nero’s fingers twitch a little against the cushions, itching to pick it up. 

If it really is trouble, the caller is out of luck. Dante and Vergil are both out on some mundane business that Nero had only half-listened to the explanation for, too busy not-sulking over his house arrest. Consequently, he’s not sure when they’ll be back or even if he can get in contact with either of them. Dante, in particular, is notorious for losing or breaking his mobile phone, and Vergil tends to turn the device off when he doesn’t wish to be bothered (which is more often than not). There are other Devils members out and about as well, but Nero doesn’t have their contact information readily available. In short, the only person around to deal with the potential problem is Nero who, currently, is not supposed to be going anywhere. 

The phone stops ringing, and then whoever it is calls back right away, filling the front room with the obnoxious noise once more. Nero eyes the vibrating handset for a long, contemplative moment before his eyes dart to door like he expects Vergil to step through it at any moment. 

He shouldn’t answer it. He really shouldn’t.

But, then again, when has Nero ever done what he should? 

A tiny thrill races down his spine as he rolls to his feet and saunters towards the phone. He flips the handset up, pressing it to his ear as his lips unconsciously curl upwards in a fierce grin. 

"Devil May Cry."

~*~

Even after such a short period of time cooped up inside, the wind through his hair feels _fantastic_ , and Nero barely resists the urge to whoop as loud as possible. As much as he enjoyed patrolling the streets with the Devils members, there was something truly liberating about doing things his way, able to drive where he wants and as fast as he wants. It was just like old times, save for the fact that he was on his way to kick ass for a cause. 

The call had been to warn them about some trouble; apparently, one of the nine oni Houses had seen fit to claim new territory after getting a tip that Dante and Vergil were “out” on business. Naturally, Nero had agreed to handle it, because why the hell would he stay home and let these power-hungry hellspawn do what they pleased? He was a member of the Devils now, and that meant these assholes were on his turf too. What kind of host would he be if he didn’t go and introduce them to his Red Queen? 

On his way out of Dante’s store, he’d caught sight of something that had given him pause — a temptation so visceral he’d been unable to look away. While Dante rarely went anywhere without his, Vergil was prone to leaving behind his exquisitely embroidered Devils jacket, especially if he was doing more mundane business. Today just so happened to be one of those days, the jacket hanging neat and pristine on the coat rack by the door. It had been warm when Nero had touched it, supple in the way that well-worn leather often was, and he had been unable to resist the urge to put it on. 

After all, what was one more misdemeanor while he was already committing a borderline criminal offense? 

Despite any lingering misgivings — because this jacket is one of Vergil’s precious items and woe betide the person that let anything to happen to it — Nero’s glad he’d taken it. Like this, Vergil’s scent seems to curl around him like lingering, dark smoke, flavouring every inhale of city air with the smell of freshly struck matches and smoked wood. It makes his oni blood roar in resonance, bloodlust and arousal warring for his attention beneath his skin, and Nero has never felt more alive. This fight, however easy or challenging, will be the perfect soothing balm to the part of him that had chafed at its confinement. Moreover, if he makes it quick, he should have everything dealt with before Vergil and Dante get home, and they’ll be none the wiser of his involvement. Perhaps he can even convince Dante to do more than just massage ointment in his back and make the night a true ten out of ten. 

His desire for expediency works well with his targets; after all, encroaching oni are not too difficult to find. Opening Hell Gates always brings with it these unnatural bursts of hot, dry air, leaving behind traces of ash and the rotten smell of sulfur even after they’ve been closed. That, and oni warbands are notoriously loud when they want to kick up a fuss, which is what this particular group seems interested in doing. All Nero has to do is follow his senses and what do you know, Oni of the Red Road at three o’clock. A nearby alleyway proves to be the perfect spot to leave his ride and Nero kills the engine quietly and hops off. He’s one of the few members without a demonically enhanced bike, which means he needs to be very conscious of where he parks, his lest his only ride home get steamrolled by visiting hellspawn. This place is as out of the way is gets, plus, with all due respect, the only should be a little more focused on trying not to die at his hands than where he left his exit strategy. 

Red Queen’s weight is heavy and comforting in his hands as he draws her, almost letting her rest across his shoulders before remembering the healing tattoo there. He grimaces faintly at the reminder. Best to make sure he watches his back a little more carefully than usual in this fight. If he marks up Vergil’s tattoo work, or worse, his jacket, Nero’s lifespan will undoubtedly reach its end a little earlier than expected. 

Not that Nero’s worried, of course. He can take flunkies like this in his sleep. 

He heads out on foot from his impromptu parking space, keeping a bit of a low profile until he finds the perfect spot for his entrance. The war band seems to be celebrating its victory, which — as far as Nero can tell — is only the fact that they’ve made it through the hell portals and weren’t decapitated by a waiting Dante. It’s sad, really, what hellspawn think is an accomplishment in these parts. 

They’ve stacked what looks like any nearby parked cars into a haphazard pile, which will be a pain for the cleanup crews but will serve perfectly as Nero’s stage. In two, bounding leaps he lands casually up on top of them, letting the heavy _thunk_ of his boots serve as his initial introduction. The Red Queen follows it up rather nicely, and Nero doesn’t hesitate to point his sword at the biggest oni, a nearly eight-feet tall wraith of a creature with the most decorated noh mask. Its four horns arc downwards away from his face like a particularly demonic goat, and even at this distance, Nero can see the rows of razor-sharp teeth visible between its gaping jaws. 

“Hey! Ugly!” 

Nero feels his grin only getting wider when the insult makes everything in the area look in his direction, suddenly the target of at least twenty pairs of beady red eyes. The furious looks being levelled in his direction fill him with a kind of insidious pleasure, and he resists the urge to lick along his teeth with a long, inhumane tongue. ( _Down boy_ , not yet.) 

“It’s gotta be, what, 2 am in Hell? I think it’s past your bedtime.” 

The answering roar is all the invitation he needs to play ball, and with a laugh, he leaps from his perch and into the fray. He stops thinking about his house arrest, about all the rules he’s breaking, about the threat of Vergil’s ire. In a fight, there is only the here and now, Nero’s world is narrowed to the heft of his giant sword in his hand, the anguished and enraged screams of his enemies, and the smell of spilt blood. Fiery spells fly past his head, leaving fresh charred marks on the asphalt in their wake, and just Nero laughs and dances away from grasping claws and dishes out his payment in steel. 

Even slightly hindered as he is by the pull of still-healing skin on his back and arms, Nero is more than enough to deal with these low-level demons. He has the biggest oni on the ropes in no time flat, pushing him back into his sea of flunkies and making him snarl something angry and guttural in Infernal. Nero just responds with a snarl of his own, teeth sharp and dangerous in his mouth, as he cuts through everything that stands between him and the biggest, baddest enemy. Black blood splatters around him with every swing of his sword, sizzling when it hits the pavement and splashes against his cheek, and Nero can practically taste his victory. 

He’s about to finish the miserable creature off, prepared to deal with the remaining underlings the moment their boss is dead, when the air behind him heats up in a sudden burst of flame and wafting smoke. Nero doesn’t need to look to know that a Hell Gate has opened up, big enough to allow for a creature of significant power to cross through. It makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, body tensing in preparation for a new enemy. Shit, was the biggest oni sent as a decoy? Was there a Flame Witch lurking somewhere nearby, biding her time until she could bring some other, larger fiend from the depths of Hell?

Nero growls low and menacing in the back of his throat, letting his oni blood twist and unfurl beneath his skin, pushing at the seams of his human form and threatening to warp it into something more menacing. He can only manage a half-transformation at best, but it’s better than nothing, and Nero wants to be prepared for whatever’s about to lurch forward into the mundane world and have prime access to his vulnerable back. The display is cut short, however, when a familiar voice speaks from just behind him. 

“Scum. You should have never sullied these streets with your pathetic existence.” 

A neat arc of summoned swords flies past his head, narrowly missing Nero’s ear, and bury themselves in the line of oni before him. They try to scatter in a blind panic, clearly realizing their mistake now that a new opponent has arrived, but it’s far too late. Nero watches with a mixture of disappointment and pleasure as Vergil single-handedly dispatches the entire remaining oni army with a flick of his wrist, turning everything before him into ash. As much as he had wanted to play with his food a little bit more, Nero can’t deny how much he enjoys such raw and brutal displays of Vergil’s power. It’s a pity there wasn’t an oni among the interlopers that posed more of a threat; his skills are almost wasted on low-life creatures like these. 

“Now then.” 

Before Nero can properly react, a hand none-too-kindly grasps a handful of his hair. Nero freezes, his delight evaporating instantly and replaced almost as quickly by a growing sense of dread. He had forgotten, however foolishly, that he hadn’t wanted Vergil to find him like this, clearly disobeying direct orders and borrowing something of Vergil’s without his express permission. Nero doesn’t know if an apology will save him, is certain Vergil will see through his half-hearted attempts at self-preservation and thinks, maybe, that his punishment will be worse for it. Instead, he says nothing, just stays with his head slightly bowed, his heartbeat loud in his ear as he forces himself to be still despite the instincts that tell him to Get Out, Now. 

Behind him, Vergil’s presence is like the hanging blade of a guillotine, only a hair’s breadth away from enacting a devastating sentence. He uses Nero’s hair to push his head forward even more, chin to chest, and Nero feels his other hand reaching for the collar of his jacket. With almost clinical detachment, Vergil draws the collar and Nero’s shirt back so he can presumably see underneath, and Nero can feel his arms break out in gooseflesh. He is so, so fucked if his tattoo is ruined, and the worry gnaws at his insides like a feral dog with a bone, his tongue clamped between his now-blunt teeth. 

Vergil lets him suffer far longer than Nero thinks is due, or perhaps his perception of time is just that skewed by his emotional turmoil. The hand holding his clothing finally lets him go, briefly stroking the back of his neck before sliding around to cup under his jaw. Cautiously hopeful, Nero doesn’t resist when Vergil tips his head back, baring his throat as Nero feels Vergil’s whole body pressed flush against his back. A part of him balks at such a blatant display of vulnerability, but Nero can only assume that since Vergil hasn’t gutted him yet, the man is satisfied with what he’d seen. He’s willing to accept this kind of punishment if it means he gets to keep all his vital bits. 

“Foolish boy,” Vergil whispers, voice low and rough, and Nero can’t help but shiver as the words brush past his ear. He doesn’t _sound_ any more irritated than usual, but the hand on Nero’s throat is absolute in its implicit command. Nero feels it all the more keenly when he swallows, Adam’s apple sliding up and down Vergil’s warm palm, and he can feel an answering heat start to stir in his belly. He doesn’t know how he’s supposed to react, but it’s becoming more and more difficult to just stand there and let Vergil do as he pleases, especially when the man continues to surprise him. 

Nero almost flinches when Vergil presses his nose into the soft skin behind Nero’s ear, and this close he can hear Vergil’s pointed inhale, scenting him in a way that he has never done before. Normally, Dante is the sole recipient of Vergil’s touch, whenever he so deigns to bestow it upon his twin. To have him so close now, especially given how often his hands have played a starring role in all of Nero’s fantasies as of late, is not the outcome he had expected at all. Honestly, Nero is mostly just blindsided by the implications of this sudden intimacy, not to mention more than a little aroused, and as such he can’t stop the breathy moan that leaves his lips when he feels Vergil clean the dried spray of blood off his cheek with a dark, unnatural tongue. He leans back into Vergil’s chest almost instinctively, feels the press of something hotter and harder than the rest of Vergil’s body against his ass, and can’t resist the urge to grind his hips into it. Judging by the way Vergil inhales sharply, he has a pretty good idea what he’s found. 

And isn’t that just a nice, satisfying stroke to his ego? 

Nero huffs a low, breathy laugh as he does it again, scenting the air just to catch even the faintest hint of Vergil’s arousal. It’s difficult to pinpoint it over the overwhelming smell of _Vergil_ — and, of course, the recent oni carnage — but it’s there and it is delicious. In a fleeting moment of daring he reaches up to grasp at Vergil’s wrist, not to pull him away but to simply pet the skin there, a silent acknowledgement of his ownership. Because that’s what this is, he realizes with a kind of bestial awareness. Nero is now _Vergil’s_ the same way that Dante is, one of his own and Marked by his hand. The fact that he’s also wearing Vergil’s jacket, blending their scents in an unintentionally intimate way, seems to have appealed to something dark and primal in Vergil. 

Like this, pressed up against him, Vergil’s own beast is starting to stir, and Nero desperately wants to wake it up. He isn’t feeling particularly patient about getting its attention either. 

But when Nero tries to encourage a little more from Vergil he feels fingers tighten warningly around his throat. The soft growl against the nape of his neck, however, only makes Nero’s cock throb in his pants, begging to be touched despite the threat of violence. He opens his mouth to speak, but Vergil beats him to it. 

“I presume you rode here on your motorcycle?” he asks, and when Nero nods, he says, “Take me to it.” 

Nero bites back a noise of disappointment when Vergil steps away, already feeling the loss of his warmth, but he does as he’s told. He doesn’t know why Vergil wants to see his bike, especially when it’s such a lacklustre mount in comparison to Vergil’s own _Beowulf_. Does he intend to confiscate it or, worse, destroy it so Nero has no choice but to wait out the rest of his house arrest? No, that would be remarkably petty, even for Vergil. Maybe he’s just too lazy to create a Hell Gate back and he’s going to make Nero take them home. Maybe he’s going to ride the bike back just to make Nero walk home. (At least the latter will give him a bit of time to cool off.) 

Thankfully, the reality is none of those things. 

They barely make it into the alleyway before Nero is being pressed up against the wall, Vergil’s teeth nipping at the underside of his jaw and nearly breaking the skin. Nero doesn’t fight his groan this time, reaching out to clutch at Vergil’s shoulders to ground himself as the man devours him with the relentlessness of a hurricane. His arousal comes back with full-force, burning up from his belly and through his chest as he surrounded by Vergil, sight and touch and smell. If his cock hadn’t been hard before, it’s certainly well past that point now, wetness starting to dampen his underwear as he unconsciously rolls his hips into the meagre friction provided by the fabric. The movement makes him bite his lip, and hey, isn’t that a waste, to leave his mouth so cruelly unoccupied? 

Carefully, wary of limits he hasn’t yet felt out, he cups a hand around Vergil’s cheek, blatantly soliciting a kiss with soft noises and an equally soft mouth. To his surprise, and immense pleasure, Vergil obliges, and Nero licks the taste of his own blood out of Vergil’s mouth with an obscene noise of pleasure. On the heels of a fight, even one as unsatisfying as his spat with the low-levelled oni, it’s all-too easy to succumb to the war drum pounding of his blood, begging for violence and satisfaction in equal parts. He tries to give back as good as he gets, chasing Vergil’s tongue into his mouth and even enjoying the way that Vergil bites it in recompense. Nero wants to keep kissing Vergil forever, even at the expense of his own oxygen levels, but he is eventually forced to break the seal of their mouths when he’s getting dizzy from more than just the pleasure. 

“I should send you home like this,” Vergil murmurs into the humid space between their parted mouths, and despite the heat in his eyes, the threat in his voice is very real. Nero still shudders with it, eyes half-lidded as he tries to catch his breath. He doesn’t want to be sent home at all, much less like this, and in an effort to appeal to Vergil’s primitive instincts he tips his head back ever so slightly. The movement makes Vergil’s pupils contract into thin, feline-esque slits, his gaze like a physical caress as he follows the now-bite-marked line of Nero’s throat to the supple black leather of his borrowed jacket. Nero can practically taste his satisfaction, revels in it like he deserves it, and says a quiet prayer that it will be enough to keep Vergil’s attention. 

Vergil is silent for a long, tense moment, before he nods his head pointedly towards Nero’s parked bike. 

“Get on.”

Disappointment curdles like sour milk in Nero’s belly and he knows it morphs his expression into something ugly. Still, he’s very aware of how much he’s pushed his luck tonight, and he heaves himself off the wall to do as he’s told. Vergil could have done any number of things to him for his disobedience, including revoking the membership he’d worked very hard to get. Getting blue-balled, though uncomfortable, is neither life-threatening nor life-changing. He is, therefore, completely surprised when Vergil settles on the bike behind him, a hot and commanding weight at his back. Nero’s fingers hesitate over the key, not sure what to expect, when the man behind him surprises him for a second time. 

“Hold the handlebars,” Vergil instructs him in a tone that brooks no argument, his hands already reaching to unbutton Nero’s pants. “If you release them, I’ll assume you no longer wish to participate.” 

When those hands pause, Nero’s brain is jump-started into action, and he scrambles to do as he’s told. The night-cooled metal warms quickly beneath the heat of his palms, but Nero barely notices, too focused on trying to determine what Vergil intends to do with him. He has been nothing but unpredictable since he first stepped through the Hell Gate at Nero’s back, but there’s something about the efficiency of his movements now that makes Nero’s stomach flutter in anticipation. That he’s still here bodes well for Nero’s evening — as does the hard heat of his erection still resting against Nero’s ass. 

Vergil makes quick work of his pants, jerking them down just enough to free his ass. His underwear isn’t treated with nearly the same kindness, Vergil tearing it right down the middle with his bare hands, and the sound almost makes Nero flinch. _Asshole_. The insult falls from his lips before Nero can reel it back, his foul mouth getting the better of him, but Vergil only chuckles, running his hands over freshly bared skin. Nero can feel his fingers absently dipping down into his cleft, the faintest hint of a caress over his entrance, and he arches into it expectantly. Judging by the way Vergi’s lips find the fresh bruises on his neck again and add a few new ones, he clearly approves of Nero’s eagerness. 

“Do you have something I can use in your saddlebags?” 

It takes Nero’s brain a moment to process the question, distracted as it is by the overwhelming feeling of Vergil’s full attention. When it finally gets with the program he manages a short, jerky nod, almost taking his hands off the handlebars before he remembers the rules. He huffs softly and ducks his head instead and says, voice rough, “Yeah. Left one. Smallest bag.” 

Like this he can’t really see what Vergil is doing, can only listen to the sounds of him rustling through Nero’s possessions in search of what he needs. Inevitably, he must find it, because his fingers are slick when they return to circle Nero’s hole. Nero leans back into that touch too, encouraging, and Vergil does not disappoint. His fantasies involving Vergil’s hands pale in comparison to the real thing, the man wasting no time in fucking him open like he expects Nero’s body to yield to him the same way so many other things do. (And of course it does, because Nero wants it so bad he can practically taste it, flushed all the way to his ears and gasping a mixture of obscenities and encouragements every time Vergil does something fantastic with his fingers.) 

The cock that Vergil ruts once against his entrance once it has been stretched is incredibly hot, and Nero should have known in that instant that he’d bitten off a little more than he could chew. As it stands, he doesn’t realize his error in judgement until the flared head is pushing inside and his world narrows to the feeling of being spread, far wider than he’s used to, around a cock that has _ridges_. Nero makes a choked, unintelligent noise, staring unseeingly at his motorcycle as his back bows, torn between pulling away and pushing back. Vergil makes the decision for him, both hands firmly grasping Nero’s hips as he guides Nero slowly but relentlessly back onto him. He knows someone is making tiny, embarrassing noises, but he’s too lost in sensation to care, breathless and dizzy and cursing Vergil for his _goddamn demon dick, what the fuck._

“Too much?” Vergil murmurs into his ear, sounding incredibly smug, like he can’t feel the way the muscles of Nero’s entrance flutter around his cock, like he can’t see Nero’s legs tremble as he struggles not to collapse. He has the decency to stay still and let Nero adjust at least, for all the good it’s doing him. His cock feels almost unbearably hot inside him, pushing the limits of Nero’s body in a way that it’s only now deciding feels good, _really good_ , and Vergil hasn’t even done anything. But Nero has an image to uphold, and he isn’t going to take Vergil’s comment lying down. 

“ _Fuck you_ ,” he spits, and no sooner have the words left his mouth does he feel one of Vergil’s hands in his hair, jerking his head back this time. The movement somehow forces Vergil’s cock deeper, ridges wreaking havoc on Nero’s senses, and he moans. 

“I beg your pardon?”

The threat in his voice is back and had Nero not been speared open on Vergil’s impressive girth he would have been more inclined to continue their banter. But he wants to be fucked now, not later, and so Nero lets a little of his own demon out, the world going a little hazy around the edges as his pupils slit and he bares too-sharp teeth. “Give it to me. I can take it.” 

Vergil’s growled “insolent boy” is lost in Nero’s strangled noise when Vergil draws his hips back and lunges forward, the first thrust sending white-hot pleasure sparking across every nerve. It doesn’t seem to matter whether he’s moving in or out; every time his dick moves all Nero can feel are the ridges rubbing pleasurably against his insides, and Vergil doesn’t stop long enough to let him get used to any of it. He feels like he’s drunk on the pleasure, glutting himself on every offered morsel while his demon practically purrs beneath his skin. 

God, he should have known that his imagination could never conjure up anything like an experience with the real thing. 

It takes Nero an embarrassingly long time to realize that Vergil no longer has him by the hair, both hands now securely grasping his hips, and without the perceived support he finds himself unable to hold himself upright. He settles for burying his face in the crook of his elbow and just letting it happen, panting, open-mouthed, while Vergil fucks him exactly the way he wants. There’s nothing much he can do in this position, not when Vergil had instructed him to leave his hands where they were, but that doesn’t stop him spreading his legs that much wider and canting his hips just so.

That has the added side-effect of letting his cock slide teasingly along the seat of his bike, which is more contact than his partner is willing to give it. The splay of Vergil’s fingers on his hips are so, so close to where he wants them to be, but the bastard won’t take him in hand, won’t do anything that doesn’t satisfy Vergil and his interests. Nero wants to tell Vergil what he needs, maybe even ask nicely, but the man is clearly intent on making sure he doesn’t have the voice to say anything more than a few broken syllables. 

He is a complete and utter asshole but, as it turns out, Nero doesn’t need to be touched. The moment Vergil finds his prostate Nero almost wails, frayed self-control and Vergil’s hands the only thing that keep him from thrashing himself off the bike. He can’t last like this, not when he can barely tell if Vergil is thrusting inside him or pulling out, insides on fire no matter what Vergil does to him. And Vergil, the bastard, only seems to take his increasingly wrecked noises as incentive to fuck him harder, driving into that spot inside of him that makes Nero’s vision blur and his belly clench. He’s vaguely aware that he’s moaning Vergil’s name, rolling back into every thrust like he can’t bear for them to be apart, but it doesn’t matter because he’s close, he’s _so close_ —

Vergil whispers his name in his ear and Nero comes all over the seat of his bike with an embarrassing noise, only peripherally aware of the way Vergil keeps fucking him, pleasure teetering on the cusp of pain until Vergil finally, finally stills. The grip on his hips immediately gentles as Vergil strokes his fingers over Nero’s belly, a now more human tongue absently laving the healed bite marks on his neck, and a different kind of pleased satisfaction blooms beneath his ribs. He’d done it. He’d fucked Vergil and _goddamn_ he felt like he understood so many more things about Dante right now. 

With a filthy noise Vergil’s dick slides free as he pulls away, and Nero shudders all over, already lamenting its loss even as his body still trembles from the phantom sensation of the ridges. Fuck, it still feels like Vergil is inside him, and Nero reflexively clenches down on nothing as his cock gives a valiant twitch against the seat. Despite his dick’s eagerness, he can feel the burning ache in his muscles from overuse, the tension only now starting to dissipate. What he needs is a chance to catch his breath. 

(What he wants is to do this again as soon as possible, consequences be damned.) 

The weight behind him disappears next as Vergil steps off of the bike, leaving Nero immensely grateful that he’d left the kickstand up. He honestly wasn’t sure he could have kept the motorcycle upright now, even if Vergil had instructed him to. 

“I’ll see you back at the shop.” 

Nero watches out of the corner of his eye as Vergil tucks himself away with an enviable amount of composure, adjusting his clothing like he hadn’t just taken Nero to pieces with his dick. Aside from the faint flush on his cheeks and the unmistakable smell of filthy, unprotected sex, he looks none the worse for wear. In a fit of pique, Nero wishes he’d had the chance to leave a more visible mark of their encounter, like the new collar of bruises he’s wearing. He supposes he’ll just have to settle with the fact that Vergil smells like him almost as much as he reeks of Vergil. 

He’s shaken from his thoughts by the feeling of Vergil’s fingers in his hair, running through the long, white strands in what feels like a caress. Nero accepts the gesture with a soft, pleased sigh, though his good mood is somewhat dampened when Vergil doesn’t linger there and instead taps his fingers against the collar of Nero’s borrowed jacket. 

“Be sure to bring this back in one piece. Don’t dawdle.” 

The blast of warm air blows Nero’s hair back as Vergil steps through a summoned Hell Gate, no doubt taking the shortest route home while Nero is left to try and ride his bike back without crashing it. Cursing under his breath, Nero shifts and barely chokes back a moan when the movement intimately reminds him of _everything_ , the tight-skin feel of his tattoo now second to the lingering ache of his ass and the slick sensation of inhumanly hot cum leaking down his thighs. And Vergil expected him to ride home _quickly_ like this? 

Fuck him. 

But he had ways of getting even, and the thought helps to steel Nero’s resolve. After all, when he got home, somebody still had to rub ointment into his back.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm onlyyyyy -checks clock- 30 minutes late for VerNero week so that's gotta count for something! This fills the line for "It's Past Your Bedtime - Human Weakness - Foolishness - Loss - Demon Anatomy ", though some are a bit cheaty. 
> 
> Apologies for not keeping Dante's grubby hands out of this pairing. He can't help himself. 
> 
> Most of the oni lore is shamelessly stolen from Secret World Legends, because I think Dante and Vergil fit the House-in-Exile oni clan very well. If you want to see some not great screenshots of what the oni look like in the game, google "Blood-Witch of Kimon." They're pretty creepy! 
> 
> As always, shout out to my fellow degenerates who keep me well fed. <3


End file.
